


canon

by regionalsky



Series: frantic [1]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: a wicked one shot, crazy fuckin ty, just some weird shit from my head, repost from instagram, written in the same tense as lose your mind, yup we are back into this again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 15:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionalsky/pseuds/regionalsky
Summary: this is an idea I got from a friend onlineit kind of just expanded on its own





	canon

**Author's Note:**

> yes, this is in fact a repost from my instagram. I'm just setting the vibe for this series.

Down the street from your school is a trailhead to a small hike. It’s crowded with tourists around holiday weekends, but otherwise, the only people who climb Settler’s Park are stoners. There is a tree, engraved with initials and surrounded by blunts and used condoms, hidden in the tall rocks that reach to the sky. No one really knows what kind of tree it is, or why it isn’t an evergreen like everything else that grows. No one really cares. All they do is get high and fuck each other.  
Your photography class uses film, something you’re forced to learn for the art credit. Most people procrastinate and take half-assed mirror selfies, but you’ve actually taken a liking to the idea. There’s something about the realness of the image, the cold reality that speaks from the film.  
For your next project, you want to photograph the youth of your town. Without them noticing, of course. And without having to talk to any of them. One day, when the sun is setting, you take your school camera and walk down the street to the trailhead.  
You’re one step onto the trail when you hear a voice. “Fuck!!” Echoes through the trees, followed by shattering glass.  
Hesitating, you glance at the thin forest around you. Weed drifts through the trees from the direction of the tree, young voices laughing in the low light call to you.  
On the other hand, whoever’s screaming would show a lot more emotion in a negative.  
Carefully, you make your way off the trail, stepping quietly. The shouts continue, followed by more shattered glass.  
“Holy FUCK!!”  
“I fucking HATE YOU!!”  
You wonder if you should be scared, but no fear touches you. The voice sounds more hurt than angry.  
You climb to the top of a small boulder to see a boy, wearing a grey sweatshirt, slumped on a small stump.  
Shattered bottles lay by his feet and at the bottom of the rocks around him. Trees whisper at you to stay quiet- you clutch the warm rock and press your chin to the rough surface.  
The boy shakes softly, trailing his finger in the dirt by his feet. His thin frame hunches over as he clutches his stomach, wracked with dry sobs.  
You pull your camera up, slowly placing it on the rock. Carefully, you advance the film, wincing at the clicking noise. Your shutter speed is set long to capture the low light, your aperture set automatic for tricky shots. Pressing your eye against the eyepiece, you rest your hand on the lens to focus.  
He’s muttering, rocking back and forth. He still grasps his stomach, shaking with lighter sobs. His hair is matted down with sweat, sticking up where he’s run his hands through.  
Click. You advance the film again, not taking your eye away.   
Somewhere, deep down, you question the morality of your actions. This is a private moment- he’s out here for a reason. But you can’t tear your eyes away from the shaking boy, can’t stop imagining what the final prints will look like.  
Click. Pulling the camera away, you slow the shutter speed even more, hoping to capture the last bits of light coming over the foothills. You check the aperture is at automatic, a habit, and put the camera back to your eye.  
The boy is gone. You point the lens all over the small clearing, searching for him.  
“What are you doing?” A husky voice asks from beneath you.  
Dread drops your stomach to your feet. You pull the camera away from and look down.  
The boy stares at you, eyes puffy and red. His soft brown eyes are drawn into a harsh glare, thin frame suddenly threatening. You think you recognize him, you’ve probably seen him in passing at school. You’re not really thinking about that, though, when your eyes catch the smashed bottle in his hand, edges sharp and dangerous.  
“I said,” He growls, “what are you doing?”  
“I’m sorry-“ you start, running your options through your head. You could run. Something about how he’s standing suggests you shouldn’t.  
“Give it to me,” he says, holding out a hand.  
You blanch at his outstretched hand. “The film?”  
He shakes his head, eyes dark. “The camera.”  
“The camera??” Your voice rises high in protest. “It’s the school’s!”  
He shrugs, lips curling in a snarl. “Then don’t take pictures of things you shouldn’t.”  
“I’m sorry- I shouldn’t’ve- I’ll throw out the film-“ you offer, fumbling with the camera. “Please don’t make me-“  
“Give it to me,” he growls, slightly raising the bottle. The razor-edged glass glints in the low light.  
Slowly, you pull the leather strap over your head. He watches you, eyes narrowing. You hand it to him with wide eyes, not sure what he’s going to do. He steps away from the boulder you’re lying on, still facing you.  
Dropping the bottle, he switches the camera to his other hand. Despair fills you as he winds up.  
“Please-“ you start, then cut yourself off as he smashes it against the rock.  
It shatters into pieces, sending glass and metal and plastic every direction. You wince and cover your face as small parts hit you.  
He smiles with satisfaction as you stare open-mouthed at the ruins in front of you.  
“Don’t take pictures of me,” he says, grinning wickedly. Pulling his hood up, he turns and walks away from you. He disappears into the pines, darkness embracing his soft footsteps.  
You wonder if there’s and pieces worth salvaging, what you’re going to tell your film teacher. Your hands shake the entire walk back, eyes darting around you. You jump at shadows, watching for the boy.  
When you get home, you flip through your yearbook to try to find him. Finally, you see the eyes, soft eyes- in the student body president.


End file.
